“Two thousand guineas!”
This the prince capped with a monosyllable:
“Three!”
Stupefaction settled upon the audience. The auctioneer hesitated, blinked astonished eyes, framed unspoken phrases with halting lips. Prince Victor, again gave his wife the full value of his vindictive snarl. She would not see, but it was plain that she was cruelly dismayed, that it cost her an effort to rise to the topping bid:
“Thirty-five hundred guineas!”
“Four thousand!”
“Four thousand I am offered ...”
The auctioneer faltered, a spasm of honesty shook him, he proceeded:
“It is only fair, ladies and gentlemen, that I should state that this canvas is not put up as an authentic Corot. It very possibly is such, in fact”—the seizure was passing swiftly—“it bears every evidence of having come from the brush of the master. But we cannot guarantee it. There is, however, a gentleman present who is amply qualified to pass upon the merits of this work. With his permission”—his eye sought Lanyard’s—“I venture to request the opinion of Monsieur Michael Lanyard, the noted connoisseur!”
Lanyard detached a deprecating smile from the pages of his catalogue, but his contemplated response was cut short by Prince Victor.